


"...Because all Suffering is Sweet to Me..."

by macabreverbosity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Heartbreak, Implied Relationships, M/M, Mental Breakdown, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock-centric, Sulking, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 22:56:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6445591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabreverbosity/pseuds/macabreverbosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The picture is an enigma yet it brings back so much with it. The saying goes, "a picture is worth a thousand words."</p>
            </blockquote>





	"...Because all Suffering is Sweet to Me..."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themayflynans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themayflynans/gifts).



> Just a small warning Sherlock has a dissociative/panic episode it's not too explicit or anything, just fair warning.
> 
> This is a rewrite I felt should be published on its own.
> 
> This fic as the one before it is for Sarah.
> 
>  
> 
> _"I have reached the point of not being able to suffer any more, because all suffering is sweet to me."_
> 
>  
> 
> \-- **Saint Thérèse of Lisieux**

Sherlock did not exactly know when the picture had been taken.

He just stared at it, uncomprehending, which irked him more than it probably should have. His mind was drawing a complete blank and that was frustrating as well. He despised not knowing things. Not knowing was another sort of weakness.

He’d found the picture a little while after his grand return—his resurrection if you will. Resuming his life at the apartment he and John had both lived in, still felt a particular kind of empty, quite alone.

John had of course moved out after the minor incident with Sherlock faking his death, (which to Sherlock’s continuing bafflement John was still quite sore about. He’d come back after all, that’s all that should have mattered.) He had apparently taken up with a woman named Mary and they had moved in together shortly there after. In many avenues of his life Sherlock had many regrets, but this was his most dearly felt, by far.

He looks back down to the picture pinched between thumb and forefinger and examines it. He still had not the faintest idea who had left it in the apartment all those months ago or for that matter who had taken it to begin with. However, it seemed out of place; suspect in its benignity. It was of him and John but it didn’t seem like they had been aware of it being taken, the angle was a bit skewed and only their profiles were visible. They were also both smiling—somewhat of a rarity in it of itself—John a warm smile of amusement and Sherlock his small lopsided smirk when something was particularly entertaining.

As much as Sherlock was loathe to admit it, he missed John and he missed his company. He missed the air of fullness...of life; that they had managed to create in the small apartment; watered down now to a tepid grey monotony. Perhaps that was merely a trick of the mind; it would not be the first time his mind had made a mockery of him and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

No, truth be told, Sherlock wasn’t the most caring of people, some would call him callous...unfeeling, even. Psychopath was the preferred moniker. Small minded people tossing around words they barely understood, it must be very peculiar in their funny little brains. He did have feelings, albeit few, far between and mostly understated. It was a waste of one's time and energy to care and be cared for; and now sitting with a peculiar ache blossoming in his chest; he is reminded of that fact acutely and in the most painful of ways.

What he was feeling now was...different to anything he'd felt before up till that very moment, it was a sort of tightness in the chest, as though his lungs were seizing, his entire respiratory system collapsing in on itself in a glorious wash of sparks dancing before his eyes—likely a symptom of oxygen deprivation affecting his vision; if the added lightheadedness and numbness in his extremities were anything to go by. Logically speaking, he knew that the feeling was, most likely, merely a manifestation of his psychological state taking on a physical component. Despite that knowledge, which he was still very aware of, he could not regulate his breathing in any efficient manner. His hands began trembling slightly—a regular and persistent tremor—the picture quivering minutely in his hands.

His vision was beginning to blur around the edges, either from the tears he could feel gathering in his eyes or it was a telltale sign he would lose consciousness soon. He felt as though he were coming apart at the seams. He knew, he knew, logically, he knew, that it was all in his head but he couldn’t control this not like everything else. He’d lost something.

Sherlock had lost something he could not restore to it's former state, he could almost feel the phantom edges of the ragged hole this loss had carved and made it's home. He'd thought—foolishly, naïvely—that John had cared in the same way, that he’d wait, that he had perhaps felt the same, but even the all-knowing Sherlock Holmes had his moments of profound stupidity.

All he’d seen from John since he had returned had been anger and resentment. An undercurrent of perhaps relief but nothing more like the response he'd hoped for. He'd been so certain of John, so certain of his...devotion, so sure in his knowledge that he had not even considered an alternative might possibly be needed. He'd been so certain. He’d been so wrong.

The picture was still clutched in his hand, creasing from the force of his grip as his hand continued to tremble, his temper contained, only just barely. He wanted to shred the damn thing so he’d never have to look at it, eradicate its existence, to perhaps begin some sort of mending, anything to stay in one piece. Instead, he lets it fall to the floor of his bedroom where he had found it again, the paper fluttering down, soundlessly landing at his feet.

He looks down at it curiously, studies the light falling on it, the position relative to his shoe clad foot, the gloss and colors, every logical aspect taken into account. He studies the scrap of paper as though it were the most fascinating thing he had every laid eyes on. After a time he begins to relax, feeling returning to his numbed fingers; little pinpricks of pain and he focuses on that; on his breathing, on his slowing heartbeat. He detaches himself from the picture and by association the people therein and he can breathe again, after a fashion.

The door opens slightly, creaking loudly on unoiled hinges, and John pops his head in before fully entering the room. Sherlock turns to face the door at the intrusion and smiles—a tight lipped forced smile that never reaches his eyes—when he sees John in the door way.

“Everything alright?” John asks a bit awkwardly, it had been a while since he’d been in the apartment as a resident or otherwise, preferring to keep his distance. John looks around, casting his eyes discreetly around the room. It was familiar, yet still felt a bit off, but certainly more like it had used to with Sherlock filling and inhabiting the space.

“Quite.” Sherlock replies dryly.

“Are you ready? Mary should already be at the church.” John replies smiling softly at the mention of his wife-to-be.

Sherlock merely stands and straightens his clothes, dusting them of imaginary lint, he was stalling really. He smiles up at John, it’s forced but he isn’t going to ruin this day for John, he wants him to be happy even if he himself is not.

 _As long as he's happy_. is Sherlock’s last thought before they both exit the apartment, a few amiable words exchanged between friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at murderdollls.


End file.
